Strictly Into You
by Sabsabbath
Summary: Castiel is alone in a school that wants him eaten alive until he is suddenly yanked, gratefully so, into the world of Dean and Sam Winchester. High school AU. Literature enthusiastic Cas.


In a world where nothing had ever gone his way, Castiel realized he _really_ shouldn't be sneaking peeks at his classmate's older brother. The school library meant more to him than four walls and thousands of books, although he did appreciate the fiction section more than his own being. It meant solitude, offering him the eye of the storm, a place where everything in the world was rightfully calm. It was in this he found all the contentment he told himself he needed. Although he enjoyed this time alone, the night always resulted with an ache in his stomach that harbored a feeling of loneliness, and whenever he looked at Dean Winchester the ache became sour. He couldn't pry away, so he decided early on that dwelling on this kind of pain was the only one he was ever going to be okay with.

The reason he was lonely to begin with was that he had been infamously friendless since the beginning. His mind was eternally focused on this defectiveness, and the more time that went by the more prominent it became. When the occasion arose at school where he had to force friendly conversation, he was used to absolutely nothing feeling natural. More human, he enforced every spoken word, less robot. In doing this, however, he hadn't realized that exactly the opposite of his goal was happening: no thank you; yes please; have a good day; you too. Controlled expressions. Wired reactions. Train-on-a-track schedule. It was all very mechanical.

Besides his scripted run in with peers and teachers, his whole day was spent soundless, and he found this easier at the library. He wasn't expected to have wild conversations and bursts of laughter with a group of friends in a place most people come to find a quiet moment. It all played out well, at least until he looked up for the hundredth time from the pages of _The Great Gatsby_ to steal a glimpse of the boy he's admired for his whole two years of high school only to accidently lock eyes with him. The reflex to look away was so strong it won him over. He scratched lazily at his scalp, hurriedly flicking his eyes away to pay mock attention to the bookcase behind them.

That was when he first noticed the presence of Dean's little brother Sam, whom was one of the only people that spoke to him on a regular basis, and when their eyes met Sam sat up a little taller.

"Castiel," he called from a few tables over. He felt his blood turn cold and looked to them in a way which he felt legal. They were not stolen but asked for. Dean was hunched over a text book, his trademark leather jacket melding into his physique, shabby and fading from constant wear. His hair was artily messy, and Castiel had to scold his mind away from wondering what it would be like to run his fingers through it.

He swallowed hard, ignoring it all. "Yeah?"

Sam paused to take a moment with his own copy of _Gatsby_, running his index finger along a page until he found what he was looking for, or lack of. Castiel waited politely until Sam's lips splintered open, his familiar voice shortly following. "So I get that the green light represents money, but Dean here says it could mean something else. What do you think?"

Castiel, a bit taken aback, disregarded the feeling of penetrating green eyes and focused instead on the question at bay. He pursed his lips and gave his attention to the stack of books on a shelf besides him, allowing himself a moment to gather his thoughts. He liked that Sam talked to him, but he hated the way he asked questions. More often than any other person, talking to him drove Castiel off his normal schedule. This was okay, he supposed. It's what people did all the time.

"Well," he started, forcing as much air into his lungs with one breath as possible, "I suppose you could say the green light means lots of things. To each their own, right? I've always seen it as a reminder to Gatsby to succeed over Tom; the green constantly reminding him that to win Daisy back would require a lot of money."

Sam gapped at him until his brother smacked him gently upside the head, throwing long strands of hair all out of place.

"See? That's exactly what I said," Dean laughed victoriously, and Castiel couldn't believe that _that _was something he caused. "Thanks, man," Dean hollered to him, earnest and animated. Castiel simply smiled in response, nodding his head once to say 'you're welcome', but for what he wasn't completely sure. Sam directed a tormented look to him that he pretended not to notice.

Besides a stray lingering in the Reference section and them, the library was completely empty. Regular people usually went to eat once the lunch bell rang, but Castiel spent his first day of freshman year lunch eating his ham and cheese sandwich in a bathroom stall, sniffling back tears while huddling inwardly and away from touching every germy surface. He returned home early, and when his mother came through the door soon after she found him tearfully trying to get through a single paragraph of _Catcher in the Rye_. He cried into her arms, his body shaking to every stroke of her hand on his back. He decided it was too humiliating and not something he wanted to do daily and thus the library became sanctuary.

When the bell for sixth period chimed through the halls and past the double doors of the library, he was surprised by how fast Dean rushed through them, leaving Sam to gather his books out of his older brother's dust. It wasn't for the first time, Castiel suspected.

"You know," he was still so absorbed in thinking about Dean that he almost missed Sam talking to him completely, "I enjoy listening to you, when you do say anything at all, that is. I don't mean to sound like an ass, I just… I mean…" Sam stumbled in his head, and Castiel knew about the irritation of that all too well, so he held his palm up to him.

"It's alright," Sam's concerned expression melted. "I appreciate it. Thank you."

Sam Winchester had the kind of smile that tended to shy away halfway through, but it never was insincere, just self-conscious. Castiel liked that about him, so he lifted the corners of his mouth up in response. He could only hope it seemed as real as he'd intended.

The next day Castiel wondered if he did something wrong and if the world truly was against him. When the lunch bell rang he gathered his massive stack of books, half of which were fiction purely for his own entertainment, and worked against the reverse flow of people in the halls. Being one of the only students fleeing away while everyone was rushing towards the cafeteria was an everyday struggle. Hulking shoulders of a group of tall seniors passed him. One after another, they collided against him, offering no time to react to each blow. He wanted to rub his shoulders, but to take his hands out from under his books would mean certain demise. When the last one from the group banged against him he made a small whimpering noise then his arms collapsed. His books dropped along with them, quickly spreading across the hallway like warm butter on bread.

In a moment of weakness and pure terror, he bent at the waste to grab his copy of _The Princess Bride _out of the trajectory of stampeding feet and felt a kick land on his bottom. The kick was so sudden and unforgiving that by the time he put together what happened in his head he was already face-flat on the cool linoleum. His cheek audibly scrapped against the ground until his weight settled into his stomach where _The Princess Bride _dove through his shirt and into his gut. He saw red flash in his mind, but couldn't bring himself to do anything. After some time he opened his eyes slowly, not remembering that he had even closed them, and looked to the ground ahead. He could see a few books within eyeshot, everyone having total disregard of their existence. Each dirty and relentless shoe that passed either kicked or stepped on them. One was open on its belly just like him; its pages spread wide. He watched helplessly as a sneaker landed on the binding, cracking a line down its middle.

He couldn't clench in the tear that escaped the corner of his eye. It flicked off his eyelashes and landed in front of him. Embarrassed and hurt, Castiel was emotionally tangled. A strong urge to sob ripped through his chest but he blocked it from becoming any more than that, recognizing he was already at a new all-time low with being pathetic. He wished, more than anything, for the ground to reach up and swallow him whole, destroying all memories of him completely from the minds of everyone in the process. After all, it would be a proper way to go.

All around him his peers cackled. Even the loathsome, bottom-of-the-food-chain freshmen grinned and pointed as they passed. Then suddenly, like a blaze of golden light, a hand broke free from the mass congregation of carefree sightseers. He took it gratefully, gripping as if he was hanging from a surely fatal cliff. The hand effortlessly heaved him back to earth, and only once his feet were safely under him he turned to look at his savior.

"Go on," Dean lashed, his eyes glazed with controlled furry as he let go of Castiel's hand. "To hell with all of you."

Everyone flooded past them like water around a sturdy stone and Castiel wrapped an arm around his middle, bent slightly from pain, whether physical or not he couldn't tell. What he did know was that either way he was exposed in front of so many people that unknowingly cut one of his strings with every unhelpful glance to his fallen book. The stings were falling short of good enough. He watched them snap before him, but was too tired to tie them back together himself. If there was ever a moment in his life more humiliating than eating lunch on a toilet, this was it. And Dean was there to witness it all. If only he wasn't an idiot and had gotten up faster then maybe he wouldn't have seen him on the floor at all. Maybe if the world wasn't constantly making a bad experience out of everything, Dean could find him less than pitiable, perhaps even like him.

When the crowd dispersed entirely and he was left alone with Dean the dread of having to face him started to fester. Never in Castiel's wildest dreams would he consider a scenario where the oldest Winchester would become a knight of Camelot. At least that's what he was reminded of as a hand, gentle and intent on comforting, clasped his shoulder. He just hated it had to be like this.

Castiel's eyes shot all around the hallway, examining the whereabouts of his belongings. One book, he took note of, was widened out all the way down by the staircase. The image of it being kicked along by his tormenters consumed his thoughts, and he bit his lip hard.

Dean's head snapped to where his gaze laid and sighed profoundly, his thumb moving in small circles. "Hey, it's okay. Come on, stop frowning."

He hadn't realized he was doing it, but when he tried to steady his lips into their normal position it only made them quiver. Dean released his grip and Castiel marveled at how cold everything went. He wondered if Dean finally seen him as everyone else does: sorry and insignificant. To his horror, the older boy started jogging in the direction of the staircase. He could see it in his mind's eye so clearly: Dean would not bother to stop, kicking the book down the steps on his way.

Instead, he did something Castiel couldn't recollect anyone in the school ever doing for him. Dean lifted the book from the floor, closing it in his hand and wiping off whatever debris was left from the pandemonium. A wave of anxiety washed over his whole being, but it was counteracted with another one that felt something resembling ease as Dean plucked another book lying a few feet away from the soiled ground and into his clean hands. He continued doing so with every book on the way back to where Castiel stood in a trance like state, his arm still wrapped securely around his stomach. A dull pain drummed from where _The Princess Bride _got stuck under him.

When all his belongings were up Dean turned smoothly on his heel. "They're shitheads, every last one of 'em." Castiel nodded automatically in response, more eager than he wanted to seem. Dean chuckled tenderly, the warmth of it radiating back to Castiel quicker than it had left.

Dean shifted the stack in his arms, "Castiel, right?"

He blinked, and then asked "How did you know?" without exactly meaning to. He was looking to the stubble on Dean's chin, perplexed by how he'd never noticed it before. Or how he's never taken into consideration just how short he was to him in comparison. He couldn't have remembered, right? His presence, he'd always felt, was easily overlooked, and why would someone as important as a Winchester ever bother to look?

"You're Sammy's friend," he declared, dropping his gaze down to the book on top of the soaring heap of books, holding them as if nothing was there at all. He considered it diligently, taking it off the peak with nimble fingertips. His strings were going to be alright, after all. He could almost physically feel them being tied by those fingers, an act that made all of his embarrassment weaken. If that didn't make Castiel envision those same fingers running over his own body just as carefully, he'd be lying to himself.

Castiel's voice broke. "Friend?"

"Yeah, the kid's nuts 'bout you," he droned casually, turning the book around and locking eyes with the picture of F. Scott Fitzgerald, pen in hand and expression stale. "Always saying how smart you are and stuff. You know, in class and what not. You've made quite the impression on him, and that's saying something." Castiel's mind wondered through corridors of memory, returning empty-handed of any examples where his name was ever associated with the word 'friend'. It was a nice thought that his name had a new connotation, and he didn't bother suppressing the smile that tugged at his lips.

When Dean was satisfied with mental mapping every detail of the book, he glimpsed up to him. His eyes danced from Castiel's hairline to his lips and stopped there. He bit his bottom lip with his canine for a moment before cracking into a toothy grin. "There ya go," he beamed, "a smile looks nice on you." After a pause that Castiel didn't notice was there because his thoughts were lost somewhere with Dean, his eyes trailed over the stack in his arms. He moved for it with opened arms, but Dean only edged away. "I'm Dean," he introduced.

Castiel _almost _laughed. "I know."

"Yeah?" he wanted to reach up and wipe the smug smile off his face, ignoring the inconsistent craving to nourish it. "Why's that?"

He didn't like the way Dean was looking at him— it was as if he could see deep into his skull and knew about every unattainable fantasy that he's ever visited. Castiel didn't want to say anything, so he ironed down his sweater with his palms. However, when he tilted his head up after a substantial amount of time, a set of green eyes were still fixed on him.

Dean nodded his head slowly although no question was asked. Castiel squirmed under his contemplation, suddenly consumed with a twinge on self-consciousness and a dash of inadequacy. "What would you do if I asked you to join me for lunch?"

It was so abrupt Castiel couldn't remember if he'd ever scripted this fantasy, so he wound up winging it. "You mean now?"

"Now would be our lunch period," he reputed mockingly.

He pretended not to catch on. "But I never go to the cafeteria."

"Okay, number one: that's a lame ass excuse. Number two: what makes you think I meant the cafeteria?" he rolled his eyes, "and number three: then I guess you're not getting your books back." His tone was playful and mischievous, yet a crippling worry returned to his gut.

"You're holding my books hostage," he said in ultimate disbelief.

"Yup." Dean made a popping noise on the 'p' and Castiel had to work really hard to not to think about his lips.

He tried to remember waking up this morning. Castiel recalled he had blueberry pancakes. This was real. "Why?"

"Wow," Dean huffed, "you're a tough person to convince. Alright, if that's what it takes, then here I go. I guessed you and I could go for lunch because I'm generally alone, you're generally alone, and I figured we could be generally alone together."

"And how would you know about me being alone?" Castiel dared.

Dean thought for a moment before pulling an answer out. "Another story for another time, yeah? I hope you're not hungry?"

Castiel shook his head, "why would I go to lunch if I were hungry?"

He didn't mean for it to sound humorous, but Dean's chest vibrated as he snickered anyway. "You're funny, and sort of depressing, but funny nonetheless." He waited a moment before finishing. "Good, I like that. Now come on, I'm dying over here."

"Are _you_ hungry?" he asked, looking down to the stack once more, definitively feeling okay with the fact his books were in another person's arms.

More laughter. "Am I hungry? I guess you could say that. Now if you want your— uh," he waved a book in front of Castiel's face, "_The Princess Bride_ book back, let's hit it." He dropped the book on the others and waved him on with a flap of the wrist.

Castiel considered making up an excuse. He wondered if 'I have Geometry to finish' would work. It would be a lie, of course. He always did his homework before bed to save his free time at school for reading. He got the idea that maybe, just once, he'd be more into something else. He took a step towards him to confirm his cooperation, and as Dean led, Castiel straggled behind.

After a while of walking in the opposite direction of the cafeteria they came to a door Castiel had passed hundreds of times in his two years there but never offered a second thought to, except for now because Dean was pushing it open with his side. It gave with a creak, blasting light through the opening. Dean squinted away from it, using his back to keep the door open.

Castiel took it upon himself to hold the door in place for Dean to smoothly saunter through. "Where does this go?" He was too concerned to stay in his usual silence.

Dean began the climb up the staircase, disregarding the blinding rays. "To the roof, of course."

Castiel hesitated, "and going up there won't get us in trouble?"

"Even if we do get caught," Dean looked over his shoulder halfway up the flight, "what's the worst that could happen? Suspension?"

Castiel didn't know what came over him when he began the ascent, thinking that he could use some time off from school anyway.

"And besides," Dean began, pushing open the second door to the flat roof, "I'd take care of you. Tell them it was my fault; beg them to let you go with a warning. What's another suspension ganna do to me? Nothing it hasn't already."

"I guess it wouldn't be so bad," Castiel informed him, coming quickly from behind Dean and opening the even heavier door, "I could do a suspension, although I'm not sure how I'd handle getting screamed at."

"I wouldn't dream of letting that happen. The first asshole that screams at you gets thrown off the roof, no kidding," Dean grumbled, dropping the books next to the door with a thump. "Prop the door open with something," Dean ordered him and he complied, finding a plank of wood wide enough to keep the door ajar. Castiel placed it in position and let the door fall against it, and when he was satisfied with it he spun around to see his accomplice basking in the sunlight, his back turned to him. His hands were held away from his sides as if he were covered in paint, so he had to ask.

"What are you doing?"

Dean laced his fingers together and reached high above his head, his jacket becoming one big crinkle on his back. "The sun is always great up here, so I'm admiring it."

Castiel traced his silhouette, mindful that he was doing exactly the same. "So you come up here for lunch every day?"

"Yeah," Dean slipped a hand into his back pocket, breaking Castiel's stare away from it. "What the hell is down there for me anyway?"

"Some people to talk to?" he offered after a second.

Dean pulled out a small rectangular box and turned to look at him as he lifted it to his mouth and swiftly pulled away, leaving a cigarette between his lips. He brought a match to life and lit it quickly, taking in a long drag, all before speaking a word. Castiel shifted slightly, straining to seemingly not give a damn about what he was doing and how isolated they were. "Who says I need people?"

"Then why am I here?" Castiel heard himself say. Dean froze briefly before walking to the edge of the building, shrugging and sitting down with his legs suspended off the side. Castiel sucked in a quick breath and tried, "you really shouldn't do that."

"Calm down. No one is going to fall from here unless they mean it." He patted the spot next to him, the concrete making a hollow noise each time it met his skin. Castiel stalled, urging his anxiety to fade. "It's alright, I won't let you fall."

"Okay," he agreed, releasing a steading breath. "I'm holding you to it."

His feet felt like led bricks as he approached, and he pondered how Dean hopped to it like it wasn't a big deal, like it wasn't five stories up. Everything, apparently, wasn't really a big deal to him; sneaking onto the rooftop of the school for a smoke, for example.

Dean scanned him closely as he sat down nearly a foot away from the edge, inching his way carefully on his butt until his feet were also dangling off. When Castiel settled, he learned regretfully that he miscalculated and his thigh was pressed against Dean's. Dean didn't flinch away like he expected, so they stayed that way.

"See?" Dean encouraged, "it's not so bad."

And in fact, it wasn't. He was scared for his shoes, but other than that it wasn't as nauseating as he'd expect. The school overlooked a garden for the botany club, and he found the blur of greens, reds, and yellows soothing. The cool air was nothing compared to the warm sun hitting their backs, and Castiel wondered why he'd never bothered to open that door before if it led to such a breath taking place, and when he glanced over to the boy next to him he realized why. This place was already used as refuge, as he did with the library. Taking this place as his, however, screamed the need for solitude louder than his own effort. He enjoyed studying people from afar, so maybe that was it. Maybe Dean just wasn't the type to care about people for any reason, so why was he invited here?

The question that pressed into him the whole time won over his upmost curiosity, and he didn't bother shoving it to the side. "So why did you do it?"

"Do what?" he asked mildly, breathing in slowly and allowing the smoke to soak into his lungs.

"Help me."

"You know, I dig the whole recovery you made. Not ten minutes ago you were a hot mess on the floor, now you're a goddamn stable person." He flicked the ashes off the tip and watched them float past the floors until the wind took them. "It killed me seeing them get you like that, like how they tried to get me, and how upset you were made it even worse. I don't like bullies, and I don't like tears."

"I appreciate it. A lot, actually."

"I'd be just like them if I didn't stop and help you, and believe me when I say this: I never want to be one of them."

"I wouldn't want to be either," Castiel said, and their elbows bumped faintly together while Dean brought the cigarette back up to his lips once more, holding his breath in for a while before releasing. Castiel watched the smoke drift past his nostrils and teeth like fog, and wondered what it was like. "Can I try one?" he caught himself asking.

Dean looked hurt, shifting awkwardly on his bottom. "You don't have to try to look cool for me."

Castiel felt his face cook under the surface. "No, that's not— I'm not… I'm just curious," he resigned, mumbling off.

Dean took a moment to consider, "alright, just because you're curious. I'm no one to nobody, so don't be doing this to impress me," Castiel went to refute that statement, but he became distracted as Dean slipped the lit cigarette between his lips and leaned to one side, his legs reaching over to brush his own. Dean used one hand to steady himself as he dug the box out of his back pocket, and when Castiel looked to the ground far below and back to Dean, his stomach flipped. He reached a hand out and balled it around Dean's jacket.

"Just in case," he ensured him.

Dean sat back down and fumbled the box open. "You'd fall with me."

"I wouldn't let us," he said, seriousness coating his tone. Dean just nodded and jabbed his fingers into the box, stretching it out and fixing any dents his weight had made.

Cigarette procured, Castiel gawked at it as if it were an extraterrestrial. It matter as well have been, considering he knew nothing of its effects and taste. He took it between his fingers like approaching a deadly snake, examining it warily. Next to him, Dean stirred.

"Oh, shit. Sorry man, but that was my last match." The disappointment in his face must have shown because Dean seemed to break, sighing quietly. "This'll be awkward, but come here."

"I'm right here," Castiel pointed out.

"No, I mean… Take it and put it between your lips." Castiel did as ordered, which he noticed was a weakness he possessed around Dean. "You have to breathe in to get a spark, alright?"

Castiel eyed every movement Dean made as he angled his body to face him front-to-side, attentive of any slip up. He placed his own cigarette into position before Dean started moving in gradually, allowing enough time for Castiel to catch on. When he did get the idea, he wanted to back down immediately but figured it was too late. Dean's face was already near intimacy with his, so he sat back and awaited impact. He held his hand out, gripping the cigarette forcibly steady between his fingers as Dean put the tips of their cigarettes together.

He breathed in slowly; waiting for something to tell him he's done the job right, and winced as Dean abruptly shot up both his hands protectively around his. Castiel knew the intention was to keep them lit as a gust of wind blew by, tossing his hair all around in the process, but he couldn't help thinking about Dean's hands ghosting over his, enveloping him with a strong longing for Dean to hold just a little bit tighter with intent completely different.

Suddenly, his cigarette flickered alive in a small eruption of smoke and Dean pulled away.

"Well go on," Dean urged him. "We've only got about ten minutes left." He examined his own cigarette and found it was burnt almost to the filter. He smashed the fire out on the side of the building and let it fall.

Castiel breathed in experimentally, and Dean ruptured into a hardy laugh the second he started coughing. He tried with all his strength to swallow the cough, but it only made him tear up and explode more.

"Taste good?" Dean asked as he tired down, and Castiel looked at it, disturbed at its ugliness.

"Not really."

"That's the beauty of it," he said, rubbing his back softly as he coughed some more in intervals of aftershocks. Castiel caught himself thinking that of course Dean would think something is beautiful despite its ugliness. It's such a Dean Winchester move.

He learned that so was sitting on the edge of death, and as he relished in the contact of Dean's hand occupying space on his back , he angled his head towards the ground and was overcome with finally feeling peace in offering his own vulnerability to someone.

"Do you have a nick name?" Dean asked unexpectedly as Castiel took in his second drag more professionally than the first.

"No," he admitted.

"Not that I don't like Castiel, I'm just thinking about how formal it is."

"But you say it nicely. Most people think too much about it and pronounce it funny, but it's like you don't even try."

Dean swung his legs together, causing the heels of his black boots to hit the side of the building with each beat. "Saying it just feels smooth, but I don't want to be formal with you."

"Okay then," he disregarded Dean's gleaming eyes and ordered, "give me one."

"Were you ever called Cas?" he asked immediately, and Castiel had a hunch that he'd been thinking about it for a while.

"Not by anyone special," he said, smoke drifting past his tongue and quickly dispersing in the air.

"Can I change that, Cas?"

The bell sounded from below them and Castiel said in conclusion "I think you already have" and was yanked up to his feet by a lopsided smiling, gorgeous, and unbelievably confident person he was sure he could call friend, and when the day was done everything was different.

His chest hurt in a dull uncomfortable way, as if tiny grains of sand scrapped his lungs as they rattled around with each cough. His emotions were always dangerously close to the surface when night fell, but despite how the day went, it wasn't so bad when his head hit the pillow.


End file.
